Almosts

that person is dead, fucking gone. the soul of that person was destroyed, devastated, dismantled. that person was convinced in their heart of hearts that people deep down were good, so good, as good as that person thought that they were. that person had every single conviction of theirs wrecked, spit on, laughed at, twisted, reversed. all hope was chewed on, the foundation of all things loved and cherished, crumbled beneath that person, shattered, lost. that person went to bed each night with a weak, fluttering chest, to awake each morning with a heavy, despairing step. it was a slow demise. a grim long while, with lots of laughs, and fun, jovial celebration. there was much avoiding, side-stepping, almosts. that person clung to what they had, which was little, in terms of what that person had wanted. excitements and opportunities were plentiful, while that person was so engulfed in mourning themself, that person squandered all potential good. not so much as sure if they thought that they did not deserve it, or if it was not good enough. not so much as sure if i am obsessed with that which killed me, or being dead.